


Tendencies

by A_lee_us



Series: American Tragedy [3]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Betrayal, Burning, Death, Fucked Up, Graphic Violence, Horror, Hostage Situation, Killing Spree, M/M, Murder, Shooting, Thriller, Torture, Violence, Water Torture, psychopathy, twisted relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_lee_us/pseuds/A_lee_us
Summary: Jorel and George might have killed the rest of the band.-WARNING: This depicts a torture scene and describes murder. There is a lot of death and has psychopathy tendencies.It's not as bad as it sounds but just a word of advice.





	Tendencies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Airiamurillo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airiamurillo/gifts).



> This idea was first developed on Sunday and damn it took three days to write it because I kept getting interrupted by commitments and outings. 
> 
> Sigh. 
> 
> -
> 
> Airiamurillo,
> 
> So I messed up because I meant to gift Hear Me Now to you, too, for I respect your commitment and contributions to the fandom. But I fucked up and it ended up not getting gifted to you. This is a gift for you that nobody asked for but Im'a do it anyway. Bless you! 
> 
> -
> 
> WARNING:  
> While I know there are many worse works out there depicting far more horrific torture scenes and non-con, a recent growing part of this fandom is kinda... young-ish?
> 
> SO,  
> if you do not like:  
> Planned, cold-blooded serial killing;  
> Torture (blood, fire, water) or;  
> A general sense of fuckery 
> 
> do not proceed to read this.

"Love?"

"Yes?"

"Could you please pass the salt?"

"Sure."

Jorel leant over the cool, marble counter and slid the salt shaker over. It skidded across the counter before it was caught by George's tattooed hand.

"Thanks," George hummed appreciatively.

The two were in their lovely, quaint kitchen. Their kitchen space was impeccably neat: bottles of condiments, spices and more lined the wooden shelves; a few cooking books were stacked at the edge of a frosted-glass table; the work table was kept clutter-free and spacey. Early morning sunlight shone into the tasteful kitchen through large, sterile windows.

George was sliding slices of white bread into their toaster, humming one of his own songs - S.C.A.V.A. He worked with ease, clicking the toaster down, and moving to fetch a block of butter from their white fridge.

Jorel propped his elbows onto the kitchen counter, watching his love with a small smile. George had recently taken to cooking and loved the challenge of Jorel going vegetarian to whip up creative dishes to supplement Jorel's protein intake. He loved watching George at work - how the large man kept a steady focus on his tasks at hand, how the corner of his eye crinkled as he concentrated his attention on his work. George was a dedicated worker, unafraid of putting in effort. It was quite a wonder, Jorel thought.

"What're you making?" Jorel asked, snagging an apple off the counter and taking a large _crunch_ out of it.

George kicked shut the fridge, arms full with a bag of cashew nuts, three avocados and a block of butter. "Avocado toast," he replied, setting down the items on the counter before leaning over to leave a loving peck on Jorel's cheek. Jorel whole-heartedly returned the favour, brushing his lips on his lover's scruff.

"Sounds good," Jorel smiled, settling back to leave George to the preparation of breakfast.

George smiled back, humming in approval. He plopped the avocados on the chopping board and opened the knife drawer with a bang - only to frown down at it, brows knitting together.

"Say, Jorel, where did we put our fruit knife?"

Jorel cocked his head, thinking.

"I think we might have left it in Danny's body."

-

Stomachs full of a hearty, healthy breakfast, the two waltzed into their sitting room. Much like their kitchen, it was spacious and clutter-free. A large flat-screened TV adorned one wall and a plush couch regaled before it.

They regularly spent Sunday mornings watching the early airing of _Crime Upon a Time_. Today, they were late to catch the start of the 10 am show - this was because breakfast had been delayed by Jorel squatting in their dark, dank basement, scrubbing furiously at their fruit knife in a bucket of bleach.

They settled on the couch, arms around one another, legs comfortable intertwined as they watched the episode. It was a slow, unhurried day. They had all the time to relax and lounge in each others' presence.

The episode was about a serial murderess and her boyfriend who got roped into her killings. Both had embarked on a killing spree, gleefully snatching unsuspecting victims off the streets and smothering them to death. Jorel's eyes crinkled as he smiled. It reminded him fondly of how he and George had gotten together under similar circumstances.

It had been after one of their shows in Los Angeles. The band had gone out drinking in a bar, laughing and full of after-show hype. However, George had muttered a half-lame excuse about not feeling well and disappeared from the celebration. Half way through drinking and joking with the rest, Jorel had accidentally cut his hand badly on a shattered shot glass and headed back to the tour bus for a first-aid kit.

Jorel had not expected to find George in the toilet of their tour bus, rinsing blood off a Swiss army knife. Their eyes had met. Stern, cold to frightened, concerned.

One thing led to another and they ended up falling in love. Jorel whole-heartedly accepted George's obsession with killing. He did agree - some people were better off dead than alive. And what was wrong with George taking a few of those who deserved death off the streets?

Initially, after they had begun dating, Jorel had simply ignored George's knife-sharpening and gun-stocking. As time wore on, he began to get more comfortable with the idea and slowly became more and more of a help. First he had helped with patching up George's 'battle wounds', then it was washing off the blood from George's clothes, then it was obtaining weapons, followed by disposing of evidence... and finally, accompanying George on his nightly killings.

But he didn't mind. He really didn't.

While Jorel never quite understood the high George seemed to get from killing, he did feel the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of engaging in such illegal vices.

George yawned and pulled Jorel in closer, to which the smaller man laughed and leaned in in response.

"What time is Dylan coming over?" George questioned lazily, voice muffled by Jorel's hair.

Jorel glanced at the wall clock, a large white thing with sleek black hands. "1 o'clock," he responded, seeing that there was a good two and a half hours, "to discuss the disappearances of Danny, Jordon and Matt."

"And Aron."

"I doubt Dylan cares."

"True."

They lounged on the couch, watching TV; George gently and soothingly stroking Jorel's hand with a thumb.

-

_One week earlier_

Jordon fled.

He was surprisingly fast and nimble, shooting away from George and fleeing for the staircase to the front door of George's house.

His footsteps thumped loudly as he practically flew down the stairs, his breath coming out in short puffs, adrenaline thrumming in his ears. He reached the foot of the stairs and swung to turn the corner. He was going to make it-

_THUMP!_

Jorel was sent stumbling harshly backwards into a coffee table, an irritated curse flying from his lips. He crashed painfully, sending a vase rolling off the table. Jordon gasped - both in horror and relief. "I'm so fucking sorry!" He apologized quickly, turning his head to check the stairs. No George. Yet. He would be coming down soon, hot on his heels. Jordon's heart thumped, "Jorel, we need to fucking go! George has killed Aron!"

Jorel rocked to his feet, groaning and rubbing the sore spots from impact with the table. "What...?" He mumbled.

Footsteps rang out as George appeared, coming down the steps. Jordon's eyes widened at the sight but steeled himself. Alone, he had no chance against the larger man. But alongside Jorel, they could overpower George.

George lumbered like a bear into the sitting room, eyes cold and expressionless. The room dropped five degrees as the towering man swept his gaze around the room, settling on Jorel and Jordon. Jordon braced himself, assuming a defensive posture. Jorel looked back and forth between the two, clearly confused.

"Jordon? George?" He glanced at both of them, "What's going on?"

Jordon burst out in an accusatory tone, sharp as knives, "George fucking killed Aron! He's a murderer!"

"Aron was talkin' shit about us. I was merely silencing him," George justified calmly. Jordon's heart froze. The other male had defended his engagement in the _murder_ of one of their childhood friends without any emotion, without hesitation, as though he were conversing about the deaths of poultry. He shuddered. George was far more cruel and deranged than he had ever known.

"What he did doesn't fucking matter! You don't kill someone for that! You killed a person, George!" Jordon yelled, angry and scared. He swung to face Jorel, "He killed _Aron_ , Jorel!"

To Jordon's horror, Jorel simply blinked and stared back at him.

"Is there a problem?" came Jorel's neutral tone and Jordon's stomach dropped. He staggered back, sizing up his two former best friends, both who were staring at him curiously as though they were entertained by his frightened actions. His wild, frantic eyes narrowed in on the front door barely five metres away. He had to report George to the cops. A murder had been committed and George couldn't get off free.

And Aron... as much as Jordon's blood boiled to think of the weasel-horse of a man, he had still been a long-time good friend of Jordon's. He could remember all the parties he had hit up with Aron while they were teens. The stupid things they had gotten up to. The fun and excitement of forming a band...

Jordon bolted-

Only to be grabbed and yanked backwards.

Jorel had caught Jordon's shoulder and tugged him back, bear-hugging him from the back, two muscular arms wrapping around Jordon's chest and pulling. Jordon's cry was crushed along with his breath and chest. He wheezed, kicking back. Jorel simply tightened his hold, knees bent and bracing, as the other male writhed in his grip.

From the bottom of the flight of stairs, George watched, an amused smile playing on his lips. He watched with interest as Jorel manhandled a struggling Jordon towards him, half-hauling, half-shoving him. Jorel's face was contorted into a concentrated frown, his muscles straining and a vein on his neck standing out as he roughed up Jordon.

Jordon was fighting back, making it extremely difficult. The scuffle was full of cursing, grunts and snarling.

"You both look like puppies fighting." George commented cooly.

Jordon narrowed his eyes. "Shut the fuck up," he hissed. He twisted and shoved, sending an elbow rocketing into Jorel's face.

There was a _crunch_ and a howl from the man behind him. Jordon tore Jorel's arms off him and sprang free, bounding away towards the front door.

He collapsed a split second after a loud gunshot boomed across the room.

George tucked his pistol back into the waistband of his jeans and sighed. The man lumbered over to his boyfriend, reaching out to nurse his bruised, bleeding nose. Jorel was hissing, fingers gingerly feeling the damage. He leant into George's warmth, allowing the larger to assess the damage. Narrowed eyes checked before announcing that Jorel's nose was not broken but would end up bruised for a few days.

They cleaned up the foyer together - George hauled Jordon's body away into the basement and Jorel mopped away, on his hands an knees, at the tiled floor. The water ran a deep red as Jorel rinsed the mop and the sharp smell of iron filled the toilet.

Later that night, George stayed up as Jorel fell asleep in their bed, planning for the disposal of Jordon's body that was wrapped up in a thick sheet, lying in their basement.

-

 

_Present Day_

 

Jorel glanced up at the clock, yawning. He shifted slightly, kicking his right leg out: It had fallen asleep while he sat watching TV. The time read half-past twelve.

George instinctively also looked up to check the time. Both of them knew it was time to prepare.

George nudged Jorel and they both got up and went about their respective tasks. George headed up the staircase to their bedroom. It was dim - the heavy curtains of the second floor were normally drawn tightly, sealing off any natural light. A stark contrast to the clean, neat ground floor, the second floor was organised but cluttered with various objects. Numerous boxes were stacked against walls, and various wires and cables littered the ground.

George gingerly stepped over the extensions and stacks of books, crossing over to his work table shoved against a wall. His table had cost a pretty penny - it was heavy, made of rich wood and had two locked drawers. His laptop sat on the varnished surface. George unlocked the drawer and pulled up the false bottom to pocket his pistol. He weighed it in his hand lovingly.

Oh, how many lives it had taken. His first kill had been with the very same pistol, a simple black thing, and it had also ended Jordon only a week earlier.

George frowned. Thinking about it, Jordon's body needed to be disposed of soon. It was lying, decomposing, a rancid, putrid mess of bodily fluids and rotting flesh, in the basement, still wrapped in the sheet that George had put him in.

He - no, _they_ \- had killed off almost all of their band members and past band members. It had started with Aron - to which Jordon had caught on and threatened to call the police, sealing his death sentence. Then, a heated argument had ensued with Matt who was adamant that Jordon was last heard of heading over to his and Jorel's home. George had fought violently with Matt during that argument. It had been brutal - Matt regularly worked out and rigorously trained his muscles for drumming. But ultimately, George was stronger, bigger and strangled the former drummer in Matt's own bedroom.

Since they had already off-ed Aron, Jordon and Matt, George and Jorel had decided to just roll with it and kill off the final two for good measure.

Danny had been easy. He had heard of Jordon and Matt's disappearances and freaked out, calling up everyone and anyone, asking for information. The poor, sweet boy had then rushed over to George's house - via taxi, thank God; disposing of a vehicle was more difficult than ridding of a body - suggesting that they drive around to Jordon and Matt's regular hang outs in search of them.

The innocent request ended with him being dragged down to the pungent-smelling basement and shown, while horrified and face drained white - the bodies of Jordon and Matt.

They had proceeded to torture him. Mutilate. Slowly kill him, drawing out his lasts breaths as painfully as possible.

George smiled fondly at the memory. Admittedly, Danny was the true fighter. While the others had put on a good struggle, Danny had resisted Jorel and him all till his end, never once not taking the chance to escape or fight back, despite the horrific tortures he was subjected to. Even after being sliced, even with blood spilling, even when scalded and burnt, and with two limbs broken, Danny had still fought back, never once surrendering.

George's only regret was accidentally killing Danny. He had wholly meant to prolong the torture till maybe about a week. Unfortunately, while crudely hacking away at the wide-eyed conscious male, he had gone too far and stabbed him fatally. It was a pity - torturing Danny had been a good bonding activity for him and J-Pup.

The tall, heavy man shoved the gun into its holster before strapping the belt on. He grinned a little maniacally, pulling his shirt down over his jeans to conceal the weapon.

He padded down the stairs again to see Jorel rolling out heavy canvas paper in the centre of the living room.

When they had last killed Jordon, his blood has seeped through the floorboards, making it a huge pain in the ass to clean. Jorel had to pry up the boards to scrub at their corners. They were simply taking precautions this time - Jorel would bait Dylan onto the canvas and George could shoot him cleanly. Done.

"Need any help?" George asked, leaning against the couch,

Jorel huffed, cracking his knuckles as he stood back up from his previously crouched position. "Thanks but I'm done already," he said, eyes wandering over to the clock. Time was ticking towards one o'clock. Jorel's heart flipped and his stomach twisted. His innards were snakes, writhing around.

Just a few more minutes and only he and George would be left of HU.

Only George and him.

Just them.

His heart leapt at the thought while panic shot up his gut again.

What if he screwed up? What if they screwed up? What if they failed to finish the job of killing off everyone else smoothly? What if-

George noticed his worry and stalked over with a sigh, planting a comforting hand solidly against Jorel's back.

"You'll be fine," he said softly, "you'll be fine."

And maybe Jorel's nerves calmed a little as he leant into George's warmth.

 

-

 

_A few days earlier_

 

Danny was screaming. His face was entirely red, both flushed and stained with blood. Crude cuts raked his entire body - slashes along his legs, slices up his torso, carvings on his face. The area around him was caked with dark, flaky dried blood. His clothes were tatters, basically ribbons from the assaults upon his body. Bruises and burns littered his frame.

 

One could achieve a similar look by being tossed into a meat grinder and being rammed into a broiling concrete wall several hundred times.

 

One of his arms was hanging awkwardly, useless by his side.

 

Jorel barely blinked as he pressed the heated metal bar into the singer's side again. The sound of charring was barely audible over the ear-splitting shrieks of the older man. The bar was glowing red, horribly evil looking. It was forced against the delicate, pale skin of Danny's torso, biting and burning into the flesh. When it was lifted, the once soft skin was a furious red, bubbling, boils and blisters bursting onto the surface. The edges of the fresh, blistering wound were blackened slighty. Blood leaked from a burst boil.

Across the basement, water rushed from a tap, pouring into a large steel tub. The roar of the water echoed around the claustrophobic basement.

George turned off the tap with a ear-piercing squeak. The water in the tub slopped against the brim, threatening to spill over.

He eyed it steadily, a wicked grin on his face. 

“Hey, J, what'd you say to helping Danny cool off a little?” He called over.

Jorel stood up, straightening from his previously crouched position, shrugging. He dropped the heated metal bar on the ground with a clang. Danny flinched. 

The blond was breathing hard. His throat was all raw and felt like fire from screaming endlessly in the past few days. Every inch of his body was either raked with fiery pain or emitted an unbearable sharp ache. A few bones were definitely broken - though he could not tell which. The multiple open wounds on his body risked infection. 

His mental stability was also shattering. It was emotionally exhausting to remain composed, remain sane, after his two best friends had murdered two more of his good friends and locked him up to be tortured. The pain from his trust being broken, the grief from the deaths of his friends, the endless fear for his life. 

His heart had not stopped thrumming at an insanely high speed since he had been grabbed. It took all the strength left in his core to stop himself from shaking and bursting out crying. 

“Sure,” Jorel replied, an equally murderous smile on his face. He reached down and violently grabbed the older man by his bound arms. 

Danny felt both frightened of and frightened for his friend. While George was a composed, collected yet vicious psychopath, Jorel was closer to a manic madman during the torture sessions. He was torn between being angry at them for putting him through the predicament and killing Matt and Jordon, but he also wanted to help them… hopefully rehabilitate them. 

He was dragged over, exposed legs scraping over the uneven, ice-cold ground. The floor was roughly-hewn, biting into his skin. 

George loomed over him, leering, when Jorel deposited him at the taller man's feet. 

Without another word, George’s rough hands closed around Danny's neck and shoulder, hauling him upwards towards the tub. Danny shouted and struggled, kicking out with his legs, writhing to escape - only to be kicked harshly in the back by Jorel. 

The wind was knocked out of him and he gasped, vision blacking. A weight registered on his back and he realised that Jorel had placed a knee on his back to further restrain him, increasing George’s ease at maneuvering his upper body. 

“Thanks, J,” George said, smiling, “Want to call the shots?”

Danny could _feel_ Jorel beam back. He shuddered and waited with bated breath, voice thumping in his chest. He could somewhat guess what was going to happen. 

“Don’t stall - just go,” came Jorel’s voice.

Danny's heart leapt into his throat. 

And, suddenly, the world was rushing upwards - rushing downwards, and he was plunged into the tub of water, submerged headfirst. A strong hand gripped his neck, forcing him down. The metal edge of the tub bit into his chest. 

Bubbles spewed out of Danny’s mouth from a surprised cry. His eyes were wide open in the water, staring in horror at the liquid engulfing him, the level too high above his head, surrounding him.

They were going to drown him. 

He struggled and lashed out as well as he could with renewed strength - but the two holding him down only tightened their grips and leaned in harder, making escape impossible. 

Time flashed by as he struggled. It wasn't long before he realised that his lungs were desperate for air. They were bursting, burning from the lack of oxygen - screaming for him to just open his mouth and inhale sweet, sweet oxygen. 

Knowledge that he could not achieve any kept his mouth tightly sealed. 

Muffled chatter from above the water surface had begun. Danny made no effort to listen, focusing on trying to hold his breath while yanking away for freedom, crushing himself into the tub in an attempt to break free. 

The weight on his back was suddenly lifted and his eyes flew open. He could-

Another hard kick to the back knocked the wind out of him. Eyes wide, bubbles shot from his mouth and he instinctively inhaled violently to recover. 

Even before he felt the water lodging, his brain had registered an _oh shit_.

Water rushed into his throat, into his lungs, choking him. He freaked out, alarm shooting to panic, anxiety increasing. Every cell felt alive and he choked, struggling wildly, screaming into the water. The water bubbled and frothed as he choked, more fluid pouring into his lungs. 

George never let up. He held the singer underwater firmly. 

Darkness was creeping along the edges of Danny’s vision. His consciousness winked in and out. White spots danced before his eyes, swirling amongst the bubbles. 

Just as he, blessedly, was going to pass out, he was yanked out of the water. 

Sweet, sweet oxygen rushed into his lungs. He gulped greedily, lungs screaming. 

He felt light headed and weak. His limbs were limp, tired. 

He was forced underwater once more and held for a full three minutes. 

Jorel shook his head as he watched George water-torture Danny. He was in wonder of George’s work. He loved watching George do things in his capable, steady way. Even while committing such horrendous acts on one of their close friends, he was still so calm and unhurried. He admired George ever so much for it. 

-

_Present Day_

They heard a the sound of gravel crunching outside their house and the tell-tale sound of an engine humming. Jorel pulled away from George and nodded affirmatively. 

George sat on the side couch, facing the door and with a good view of the canvas-spread ground. The gun remained hidden under his shirt, tucked away. 

Jorel hurried to open the door, unlatching it and opening it. He squinted against the bright afternoon rays, waving to the last remaining member of their band, who was exiting his car. 

Dylan was the last one. They were going to kill him.

Oh, poor Dylan who had no idea what they had done. Who thought that coming over meant that they could devise a plan to search for the missing three members. Who was so unaware that all three lay dead in the basement under his feet. 

He had expected Dylan to come out of his car, aged, concerned and upset. But Dylan came out furious. Jorel noticed with rising panic that Dylan was armed with a gun in hand and another in a holster strapped to his side. 

Dylan marched up to Jorel and Jorel flinched back. He wouldn't be able to defend himself if Dylan opened fire. 

His brain worked a mile a minute. Why was Dylan armed? Did he figure it out? If so - how? What were they gonna do? George didn't know that Dylan had guns - Dylan never had guns! Did Dylan even know how to shoot? 

Dread and fear was shooting through him but he steadied himself. If Dylan did not suspect anything about them yet, he was not going to give them away. He straightened his face and glanced nervously at the guns as Dylan stormed up, face black. 

“Dylan, what’s up-”

“I’m gonna do it, Jorel.”

Jorel swallowed, surprised. “Do what?” he asked, a cold sinking feeling in his gut. He prayed for George to appear and defend him against the braided-hair male. 

“I'm gonna fucking _kill_ Aron. I heard that he’s missing, too. The bastard must have done something to Matty, Jordon and Danny!” Dylan yelled, face turning red. Jorel realised that Dylan was serious - there was fire in his eyes and his tone was the most serious he had ever heard the regular party animal use. 

Jorel released an internal sigh of relief. Dylan did not suspect him and George. Yet. 

But Dylan was armed and ready to protect himself if needed. This was not part of the plan. The plan was to take out the other man while he was distracted and unarmed. Dylan possessing guns had never seemed possible to him and George. 

“Dyl, why not you come in and we talk for a bit?” Jorel offered nervously but Dylan firmly shook his head, turning his heel to return to his car. 

“No, I’m going to find Aron and I’m gonna shoot him dead.” The other man said viciously. 

Jorel’s panic skyrocketed. He turned and sent a panicked look at George who looked curious but calm. 

“What?” George mouthed. 

Jorel waited till Dylan was opening his car door, just out of ear shot before hissing urgently. “It’s Dylan - he’s armed! Thinks Aron did it and wants to kill him. He’s leaving now!”

George's eyes narrowed, rage flickering onto his face. “Fuck!” he cursed, pushing himself off the couch and pulling the pistol from his pocket. He strode over to the door, the rage melting into malice, a cruel smirk emerging and spreading over his face. 

Jorel knew a wicked plan was forming in his boyfriend’s mind. 

“DYLAN!” George yelled, waving over to the man in the car, “I have something to tell you!”

Dylan had been pulling his car gear stick, ready to drive off. But he paused, rolling down the window and sticking his head out. “What is it?” He asked, snappily. 

George ignored the hostility. “It’s about Aron!” he called back, “I know where he is!”

The car’s engine was cut off and Dylan climbed out of the car, crossing over to George quickly. 

His face was solemn, serious. Jorel glanced at George’s expression nervously. His boyfriend looked composed as ever, not calling forth the slightest suspicion from others. He was not nervous. He seemed to have a good idea of what he was doing though the dangerous smirk he had made just shortly before told Jorel that George had something risky in mind. 

“Where is he? Where’s the bastard?” Dylan asked. 

When George spoke, his voice was dangerously low and quiet. A dark whisper. 

“You won't believe this, Dyl, but I’ve got him.” George said evenly, his gaze steady as he made eye contact with Dylan, “Jorel and I suspected him so we grabbed him and locked him in our basement last night. Jorel’s too much of a pussy to admit it out loud but we did. He’s there.”

Dylan's eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god,” Dylan gaped before his eyes hardened, “what’d he say?”

George was a smooth liar, a good liar. “He did it, Dyl. He killed them all - Jordon, Matt and Danny.”

Dylan growled dangerously, a rumble from his chest. His eyes were dark and there was murder in them. Jorel swallowed and licked his lips. Angry Dylan was something they were unaccustomed to and had no idea who they were up against. Jorel didn't even know that Dylan had the ability to shoot anyone. 

“Let me at him, George.” Dylan snarled. 

George hummed affirmingly and stepped aside, allowing Dylan entry into the house. 

Dylan shot past them, disappearing down the steps of the basement. 

George drew his gun, radiating excitement and eagerness, as he quickly followed after Dylan into the basement. Jorel hesitated before following in suit.  
The first thing Jorel heard was a shocked “What the fuck?” from Dylan before two shots rang out, echoing along the narrow stairway. 

Jorel ran down the stairs and towards the basement, concerned for George. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, George forced past him, gun aimed towards the basement, gun firing. 

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” Dylan roared, voice booming from the basement. 

George grasped Jorel’s bicep and dragged him up the stairs. “This is so exciting!” He grinned at Jorel as they dashed wildly up towards the living room. 

Jorel’s heart was thumping wildly in his chest. 

A shot cracked just over his head, chipping the pain of the ceiling. 

They shot to the top of the stairs and George tugged Jorel around the banister. 

“Go get your knife!” George ordered, reloading his pistol. 

Jorel was torn. He wanted to listen to George but was too frightened to leave him alone with Dylan. Dylan could kill George - he realised. _Dylan could kill George._ George could _die_.

But George shot him a look that demanded his order be followed so Jorel dashed for the kitchen, slamming open the kitchen drawer and rifling through the cutlery for a the large meat cleaver. He could hear the peppering of shots being fired from the living room. His blood roared in his ears as he hefted the meat cleaver in hand and ran back to the living room. 

The shots had suddenly stopped. Jorel’s steps slowed as he entered the living space, confused. 

The walls had been chipped, bullets riddled into them. Blood had splattered at some places, red specks on the walls and couches. 

Jorel scanned the room quickly, eyes flicking over all surfaces. He could locate no movement. There was no sign of either Dylan or George. 

A flash of movement caught his eye and he glanced down to see George squatted behind a couch near him for cover, eyes alarmed. 

Jorel was about to run to him when an arm shot around his neck and grappled him backwards. He cried out, thrashing about, kicking to release himself from Dylan’s iron grip.

He froze when the warm muzzle of Dylan’s gun was pressed against his temple. 

“Stop struggling,” Dylan snarled, digging the weapon into Jorel’s head. Jorel’s eyes widened, searching out for George. He met George’s eyes, pleading for him to save him. 

“Jorel!” George shot up, gun aimed at Dylan - or rather, Jorel's chest. Dylan had Jorel pulled against his chest, using the older as a human shield. 

Dylan snarled, tightening his grip on Jorel. "Why?” He shouted, angrily. 

George never wavered, gun still aimed. Jorel silently begged George to help him, trusting his lover to rescue him from Dylan’s grasp. But he wasn't too certain that his own safety was George’s priority when he saw the familiar smirk play itself on George's lips. 

“Why? Why I shot Jordon while he was fleeing like a pathetic animal? Why I strangled Matthew after beating the shit out of him? Why I tortured Danny till his death?” George smirked, seemingly amused by the situation. Dylan howled in response, jabbing the gun more forcefully into Jorel’s temple. 

“You shut up or Jorel gets it,” he warned, voice low. 

George burst out laughing. “Let me tell you about all of it, Dyl!” He cried, gun still trained, “About how Jordon collapsed and bled out slowly to death! About how Matty struggled as he was slowly choked! About how Danny was burned and cut everywhere possible, and half-drowned! I love it! I loved every second of it! And,” he added dangerously, “We were gonna kill you.”

Dylan screeched, raging. “You’re a monster!” He screamed, “We trusted you and Jorel! Both of you are scum! Fucking scum!”

George chortled and took a step towards Dylan and Jorel. Dylan startled backwards but composed himself and held the gun steady to Jorel’s head. “Keep back or I will kill Jorel. I’m warning you.”

George simply grinned. “Okay,” he shrugged. Jorel’s blood ran like ice. 

Things seemed to move in slow motion. George’s arm came up, his fingers found the trigger, three shots were fired, echoing and booming through Jorel’s ear.

Jorel's mouth was frozen in a scream, his voice lodged in his throat.

Sharp pain punctured his chest and he gasped, horrified. 

Dylan was shouting. He was dropped to the floor as the younger male quickly dived for cover. 

Gasping, hands clasped to his chest, Jorel watched blearily as a short battle ensued between the two. Dylan was peppered once, twice in the leg - and it was over for the youngest member of the band. Immobilized, he could not protect himself as George fired a shot cleanly between his eyes. 

Jorel’s world was collapsing. 

A stray tear leaked from his eye as his vision darkened. His final breath came out as a sob as the world blurred - his last vision that of George dragging Dylan’s body away into the distance. 

And then there was nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> I had four endings that I debated writing. The first was the one that you just read. 
> 
> I considered letting Dylan live and having him successfully kill off the other two, or Dylan and George mutually killing each other and Jorel taking his own life out of grief, OR - this is the worst - Brian Cox storming the house with the cops. 
> 
> I wanted to include Scarlet coming to look for her Daddy but I couldn't do that to a child, not even in fiction. Would have been a good word-count boost, though. 
> 
> Kudos and comment if you thought this was good, enjoyed my style or have lungs.


End file.
